


to end the heartache

by hamdeny (brooklynisosm)



Series: hamlet's teenage years AU [3]
Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: But also, Depression, F/M, Family Feels, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Oh also, Panic Attacks, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, big trigger warning, hamlet and his mother love each other so much, hamlet's dad sucks, ophelia and hamlet are like bffs dude, so yeah please don't read this it's not fun, the tag for graphic depictions of violence is for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklynisosm/pseuds/hamdeny
Summary: he’ll still be sleeping. it’s just he won’t wake up.





	to end the heartache

**Author's Note:**

> FIRST OF ALL, I'm sure you saw all the trigger warnings in the tags, but just in case they weren't clear enough, this is a heavily angsty fic. I promise if you know me in real life and you are reading this, I AM OKAY. Many of the super dark scenes were written when I was in a bad place but I'm finishing this fic feeling a lot better. 
> 
> Also, currently I'm at a 3 week boarding camp dedicated to Shakespeare, and it's our day off, and everyone in my dorm hall is puking so I'm just sitting here writing about Hamlet. It's a very good camp though and I love it immensely. 
> 
> ALSO this story is in the same timeline as my previous one, "Sweet, Not Lasting". You don't need to have read it for this to make sense, but Hamlet's situation (and Horatio's reactions) will be a lot clearer if you do. I understand that some of what Horatio does is out of character, since in the play he is UNFLINCHINGLY LOYAL TO HAMLET NO MATTER WHAT SHIT HAMLET DOES but I'm playing with Horatio taking more agency in his life, since being Hamlet's friend would be really fucking hard for anyone. My HC is that Horatio IS willing to fight with Hamlet in certain situations, but during the events of the play, he thinks that what Hamlet really NEEDS is just someone who will be there for him.

He only tries it once. 

It isn’t even a special day. A Tuesday in February. Mounds of papers due about things he doesn’t care about, and none of them are done. Laertes smirking at him in the hall from a crowd of fellow fuckboys, his face infuriating and unreadable. Everything loud and bright and yet it’s so dark within the little shell of Hamlet’s head that he feels blind. In his math class they have a test that he doesn’t read a single word of and fails completely, whispering  _ stupid stupid stupid _ . He needs to see Horatio because then he’ll feel better but Horatio is stressed today and snaps at him over lunch and Hamlet curls into himself, desperately trying not to cry, unable to speak or touch or eat, and Ophelia isn’t sitting with them, she’s with her other friends, the ones who aren’t like Hamlet, who are nicer and much more fun to be around, who don’t just whine and cry and pick at their food. His arms hurt where his fingernails bite and so does his throat, tight and suffocating, and his stomach, hollow and nauseous and full of acid. And it’s raining and his hair is wet and Horatio snapped at him so he can’t ask to borrow his jacket and halfway through the day he stops talking and slowly slips into a state where everything passes and he doesn’t see it at all. He is a ghost of the person he once was, and he thinks no one would notice if he faded away. 

And it would’ve been fine because this is kind of how every day goes now but then he comes home and his father is home and they’re having dinner and Claudius is away somewhere and Claudius is the only one who can stand up to Hamlet’s father when he says something shitty because his mother is a coward like Hamlet. So they sit over lobster, which Hamlet hates, and talk about shit that makes him want to cut both of his ears of like Van Gogh and send one to Ophelia and one to Horatio and let them both run in circles panicking until they realize he’s fine, just deaf, because that would be really fucked up and really funny. 

And Hamlet just wants his father to smile at him. Just one smile, one expression of pride or kindness or love or anything, and his day will be fixed. He’ll be on top of the fucking world. 

So he “engages” and he talks about his grades and studies and how he’s getting so good at fencing that yesterday he beat Osric and maybe someday he could win a ribbon. That he’s gotten better with handling blood (though he doesn’t say why) and that he’s learned to speak Norwegian (it’s very similar to Danish, but different, and he’s good at it now). He’s begun to read the news every morning though the news only makes him feel afraid. He doesn’t mention the play he was just in or his poetry class which is his favorite class he’s ever taken or his friends or anything at all that makes him happy. And he’s so sure this time. This is going to be the one where his father looks at him and sees someone worthy to be king. 

But instead, King Hamlet says only, “Norwegian won’t do us any good when Fortinbras declares war.” And, “You need more meat on those bones. Eat,” pointing at the lobster. 

Hamlet stares down at the lobster. The lobster stares up at him. They are not so different. Fancy outside, dead inside, cold and distasteful. 

“Hamlet is doing wonderfully at school,” says Mom, sipping what must be her fourth glass of wine. “And his extracurriculars. He was in a lovely play a few weeks ago.” 

Hamlet stiffens; the king glares. “A country doesn’t run on schooling- it runs on strength. Resilience.” He gives a terse laugh. “Oh, and I want you to stop doing this acting nonsense. It doesn’t help the rumors.” 

Hamlet’s stomach drops and twists, a knot that keeps growing. “What rumors?” he said, though he knows full well. 

“That you’re a queer.” His father is staring at him and Hamlet should make eye contact but it is suddenly impossible to lift his head, to do anything except stare down at his hands and breathe and try not to throw up. “Well? Look at me, boy.” 

Hamlet does not. He looks at his mother. Pleads to her with his face. She sees him. Her eyes are so sad. Dulled by wine. He wants to scream at her “DO SOMETHING!” He does not. She does not. 

“I’m sorry, father,” he says instead, making excruciating eye contact with the king. “I thought that story had faded.” 

“Not with your running around like a faggot, it hasn’t.” 

It’s like a slap in the face. That word. White-hot and blinding, just for a second. His father is still speaking but Hamlet’s ears are blocking the noise, blocking out everything, just ringing and ringing and saying faggot faggot faggot faggot and he was so sure it would be better by now, he was so sure his father had forgiven him by now, but no. It just keeps playing in his brain and his head hurts from its phantom pummeling, his chest collapsing where he’s been kicked. 

“-your little boyfriend-” 

Hamlet snaps back into reality. “My  _ what? _ ” 

His father’s face has gone red. The way it is when he’s working up to rage. “What’s his name? The commoner. It’s bad enough you’ve befriended that kind of drivel, but whatever filth you’re doing with him now has to stop.” 

“Horatio is a very good friend to Hamlet,” says his mother. Seems she’s finally woken up. “He has been nothing but trustworthy. Like Polonius.” 

“Really? Last thing I knew, Polonius didn’t like to take it up the ass-”

“That’s enough!” Gertrude shouts, two pink spots rising on her cheeks. 

Hamlet stands up. 

Both of his parents go silent, turning their eyes to him. His father’s with rage, mother’s with concern. 

“I don’t feel well,” Hamlet says. There are tears in his eyes that really want to fall. He tries to burn them away but they’re too heavy. 

Before his father can call him a pussy, before his mother can stand and feel his forehead, before anyone can do anything to stop him, he bolts. 

Three pairs of eyes stare after him. The king, the queen, and the lobster. 

* * *

 

Hamlet’s lungs have forgotten how to inflate and it’s everywhere, everywhere, his crying, his tears, soaking his bed and his hair and everything is white and he’s dying. 

He doesn’t know how long it is until his heart rate slows, until his breathing evens into hiccuping sobs. His grip loosens on his arms- a glance shows him the scratch marks he’s made, the little bloody crescents where his fingernails broke skin mixed with the ones he re-opened, and the little red razor-lines he can’t seem to let heal. Everything is a dull ache. His head, his arms, his thighs, his chest. He lays flat on his back, his mind empty, numb. 

And then an idea. 

It’s not a new idea, but it’s one he’s always been scared of entertaining. But now, in his empty head, it echoes and he wonders why he hasn’t let it sing before. The song is melancholy and lovely, a siren’s croon to somewhere else. 

This isn’t planned. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t write a note. His journal, probably, will be enough explanation. It’s all in there in the drawer of his bedside table where Horatio knows to look. Besides that he does no preparation. 

For someone so dramatic, he plans to die quietly. 

His mother’s bathroom is empty and sterile and white, cold. He doesn’t want to die here. He’s only here for her pills. There’s so many in the medicine cabinet: valium, xanax, prozac, advil. They all sound like the names of supervillains in the crumpled comic books he used to read at Horatio’s house. There’s one at the back he wants. Sleeping pills. He takes them and leaves the rest. No water, even. 

When he gets back to his bedroom he’s exhausted. For a second he wonders if he should go to bed and see if he still wants to kill himself in the morning. It’s a funny thought to him, the voice of his mother in his head, so benign in such an un-benign situation.  Maybe a part of Hamlet knows he will feel better tomorrow, at least for a little while. Maybe that’s the reason he wants to do it now, before he does something stupid like hope again. 

He’ll still be sleeping. It’s just he won’t wake up. Waking up is the worst part, except when he has nightmares.  _ Will he die a nightmare?  _ He brushes away the thought. He just wants to go to sleep. He just wants to stop hurting. 

He pours the bottle out into his hand. 

* * *

 

He’s almost forgotten how to use a phone. It rings for so long. 

“My lord, I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now. I’m studying-” 

“Horatio,” he says, a sound which is somewhere far away and not his own. “I need help.” 

“What?” Horatio’s voice gains a hint of panic. “What’s wrong?”

“Tell you later.” His face is wet. Is he crying? The world around spins. He is so tired. So… tired. “Horatio, I can’t sleep. Don’t let me, okay? Call a… amulbance. Ambulance. I’m scared. Horatio, I’m scared.” 

“Where are you?” Horatio really is panicking now. Hamlet feels bad, somewhere in some deeper part of him. “Hamlet, what is going on?” 

He wants to smile at the  _ Hamlet.  _ Instead he cries harder. 

“Just help me please. Please. I’m gonna die.” 

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on-”

“I’m tired.” 

“Hamlet-”

“I’ll tell you later. Or someone else will.” Hamlet giggles, but it’s cut off by a sob. “If I don’t-” 

“Where are you?” 

“My room. But don’t tell my mom. Shh. She’ll get mad. I love you. Don’t tell my dad. Love you so much. I’m tired.” 

Horatio is saying things but the world is spinning. He’s so sleepy. He lies down. He’s not supposed to do that. But his body is too heavy. He can’t sit back up. His eyes want to close. He wants to close his eyes. 

* * *

 

There are things moving around him in this white haze. Something touching him. He thinks he might be awake, though he’s not sure. He hears a voice, very far away. 

“My lord,” it says. “Hamlet.” 

He wants to reach for Horatio. But his arms are too heavy. 

“I’m sorry,” the voice says. 

_ I’m sorry too,  _ Hamlet thinks. But before he can say it, everything goes white again. 

* * *

 

Hamlet wakes up. 

* * *

 

He’s not comfortable. His legs are too hot and his arms are too cold, and they hurt. His head aches. His stomach is queasy and everything is blurred. 

“Horatio?” he says. His voice comes out a croak. 

There’s movement beside him. Suddenly he’s aware of someone holding his hand. He looks at the hand and follows it up the arm and finds a face. 

“Hi mom,” he says. “What’s up?” 

“Hamlet!” His mother’s eyes widen. “Thank god!” 

She falls over onto him, an awkwardly-positioned hug. She’s shaking a bit. 

“Gertrude,” says another voice. “Give him some space. He’s just woken up.” 

Hamlet looks to see Claudius, who stands near the back of the room. He looks disheveled and tired, and needs a shave. 

His father is nowhere to be seen. 

“We’ve been worried about you, kiddo,” Claudius says, walking closer. 

Mom sniffles. “An understatement.” 

Claudius kneels down next to her and puts a reassuring arm around her shoulders. “You gave everyone a fright. But we’re glad you’re okay.” 

Hamlet coughs; his voice is still raspy and not his own. “What happened?” 

Claudius looks to Mom unsurely. She nods. 

“You swallowed a lot of pills. But you’re okay, because you called Horatio and he managed to get help before they could shut you down,” Claudius explains gently. 

The memories crash down on him. The white cloud he’d floated on; the pills, the pain draining slowly away. And then: nothing. 

Why had he called Horatio? 

Why had he changed his mind? 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his chest hollow. He feels sick to his stomach. He’s not sure how to say he isn’t sorry for what he did, only that it made them scared. “I’m sorry I-” 

Mom reaches out for him. She holds his hand with her own trembling one. 

“I’m sorry too, sweetie. I should have done more to-” 

“No. No. It’s not your fault,” Hamlet says, sincerely. He realizes how much he really fucking loves his mom. He loves his mom more than almost anyone and he hates that he made her sad. And he loves Claudius too, loves him for being here and holding her hand, and for the way he tries to smile at Hamlet even when everything hurts. He loves both of them and he knows they love him and somehow that makes him even more sad. 

He doesn’t want to ask. He has to. “Where’s dad?” 

His mom’s hand goes still. He looks up to Claudius, whose face has gone stony. 

“He’s had some business come up,” Claudius says slowly. “He’s in England.” 

“Oh,” Hamlet says. 

He wants to cry, suddenly. He wants his mom and Claudius to climb into his hospital bed and pet his hair and tell him he’s ok like they would do when he was a kid and had nightmares. Hamlet’s father never did that for him. Ironic, how Claudius knows far more about him than his actual father. 

He can’t cry. He can’t cry. His father’s voice is in his head, and it roars that he can’t, that he’s already less than a man. 

So he just holds his mom’s hand tight, tight, tight, until his knuckles are white as a ghost’s, and wonders if he will ever be able to make his dad proud. He thinks probably not. But maybe it’s okay. 

“I love you, mom,” he says, and kisses her fingers. 

Maybe it’s okay. 

* * *

 

Hamlet expects seeing Horatio to be awkward, but nice, laced with sympathy he’s found nowhere else in this goddamn hospital. He almost craves Horatio’s tight embrace, the way he’ll swaddle Hamlet, how he’ll talk to him like everything’s normal even though it really isn’t. He wants his best friend. 

He doesn’t get him. 

Horatio doesn’t smile when he enters the room. He hovers by the door, his gaze distant, a line between his eyebrows. They stare at one another for a long second. Hamlet knows he must look a mess; he hasn’t taken a shower or even slept, really, since he woke up. The thin hospital gown does very little to cover his frail frame, and nothing to conceal the raw marks on his arms. 

He wants to say something. He wants Horatio to say something so he doesn’t have to. 

“Hi,” Hamlet says. It cracks. Horatio studies him warily. 

“Hi.” 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Hamlet says. He means to smile, but he forgets. 

“Don’t.” 

“So what did I miss when I was swimming back up the River Styx? Any homework?” 

“Stop it, Hamlet.” 

Hamlet stops. 

Horatio’s used his name. And it sounds almost beautiful, falling from his lips. Almost sweet enough to make Hamlet want to stop hating himself. 

Almost. 

There is a long, long silence. Hamlet wants Horatio to step farther into the room. He wants Horatio to do anything except stand there with his sad eyes. This is a pattern now. Hamlet hurts himself, and Horatio picks up the pieces. It hits Hamlet, suddenly, how much  _ more  _ Horatio deserves. How much happier he could be if he didn’t have Hamlet in his life. 

And now he remembers why he’s here in the first place. 

There are a thousand thoughts Hamlet has but he can’t come close to articulating any of them so he just says, in a broken voice, “I’m sorry.” 

Horatio breathes out. “I’m sorry too.” 

“What are you apologizing for?” Hamlet half-laughs, fighting tears that well up in a sudden rush. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You… you never have.” 

“I- I wasn’t…” Horatio struggles with his words. He’s never been as good at talking as Hamlet is. When they were younger, he had a stutter; by the time they were ten or eleven he’d mastered it but still, he seems frightened by the sound of his own voice. “I wasn’t there. For you.” 

“But you were,” Hamlet says, looking down at his hands. They are skeletal, the skin nearly translucent. “You’re the reason I’m not-”

“I wasn’t there to stop you. And I had  _ no way  _ to know you would be okay- do you… do you understand how terrifying it is, to get a call like that? To know that someone you lo- care about is in danger and there’s no guarantee you can save them? I did everything I could but it was a 50/50 chance at best you’d live. Did you know that?” 

Hamlet doesn’t answer. Horatio won’t hold his hand, so Shame does, squeezing tight at his soul. 

“Do you  _ ever  _ think about the consequences of your actions? Actually, don’t answer that, I already know you don’t. You think just because things get h-h-hard you can swallow some pills so you don’t have to deal with it anymore… but then you change your mind and you call me like it’s n-nothing _.  _ I c-couldn’t do anything. Do you even remember what you said?” 

“No,” Hamlet says. “I blacked out. I don’t remember why I called you-” 

“Well, maybe I wish you hadn’t.” 

It’s like Horatio’s just taken out a gun and shot Hamlet in the chest. He thinks maybe he should be angry that Horatio did that. 

Instead, it just feels justified. 

His throat has been ripped out and he can’t speak. 

He stares at Horatio, and Horatio stares at him, and there is a long, long silence. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I thought I could handle seeing you now and stay calm but obviously I can’t, so I’m gonna go sit in the hall now. I hope you feel b-b-better.” Horatio says, and leaves. 

Everyone does. 

 

* * *

 

(He starts looking around the hospital room to see if there’s anything he could use to end it once and for all. But they seem to have planned for that. Unless he wants to hang himself using the cord of his IV, he doesn’t have many options.) 

* * *

 

He stares, numb, at the gray wall for what feels like years. He’s too tired to cry, or eat, or sleep. He wonders if he really succeeded and now he’s in Hell. He thinks if this were Hell maybe it’d be better. 

 

* * *

 

The first thing Ophelia does when she enters his hospital room is hug him. She starts crying, which is still less painful than seeing Horatio. He hugs back, as well as he can, burying his face in a mound of her sweet-smelling hair so he can pretend nothing else exists. 

The niceness of Ophelia is fleeting, however, because the second thing she does is pull back and slap him clean across the face. 

“Ow!” Hamlet hisses, pressing a hand to his smarting cheek. “What-”

“You  _ asshole, _ ” Ophelia says, wiping her tears away with the back of her sleeve. “You absolute douchebag idiot  _ bitch. _ You can’t do that.” 

And then Hamlet’s heart cracks just a little, because he’d forgotten. In his haze of despair he’d forgotten Ophelia, and her mother, and her too-empty house. The way she slept in her brother’s room when those things became too much. 

Suddenly he can’t look her in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, shame boiling his chest. “I didn’t- I’m sorry.” 

“You’d better be sorry.” She takes his hand and holds it, like a lifeline. “You can’t do that ever again. I love you too much. I refuse to live in a world without my best friend and don’t fucking test me.” 

“I know,” Hamlet says, staring at their hands. “I’m sorry.” 

“Promise.” 

He manages a tiny grin at her. “You know my promises don’t mean shit.” 

She glares daggers. “Promise, Hamlet.” 

He’s heavy again. “Okay. I promise I’ll never…” He laughs, and then stops. Not even he can laugh at this now. “I’ll never try to kill myself again.” 

“Okay.” Ophelia deflates, her energy draining away. They sit there for a few moments, breathing together, two semi-suicidal teens in a room made for one. 

“Why did you do it?” Ophelia says, very quietly. She’s looking down to where their hands rest. 

Hamlet studies her, her downcast eyes and eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Her pretty hair and pretty face and the softness that he’s found he’s a bit afraid of. 

“I was tired,” he says. “And everything was just. Too much. And my dad said something and… that was the final straw, I guess. I just wanted it to go away.” He has the sudden, awful feeling he might cry. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, drinking some of his own blood. “But I fucked up. I shouldn’t have done that. Now probably everyone hates me more than they already did.” 

“Nobody hates you,” Ophelia says. 

“Your brother hates me,” Hamlet mumbles. He’s gone this long without thinking about Laertes and he’s gone and ruined it again. 

“No, he doesn’t,” she says, with a hint of what could be a laugh. “Actually, he cried in the car. It was honestly frightening.” 

“He’s here?” 

“He drove me.” Ophelia blinks a few times, like she’s still surprised. “I didn’t even ask. He was just like ‘get in before I change my mind’. He’s probably still sitting out there feeling bad.” 

“Oh,” Hamlet says. He doesn’t know what else to say. His heart does a little twisty thing that he really wants to ignore. 

“Nobody hates you,” Ophelia repeats. “And before you say it, no, not even your dad. Everybody loves you.” 

“Horatio hates me,” he says. 

He hasn’t acknowledged it out loud yet. Saying it makes him want to puke. 

“What are you talking about? He’s your best friend-”

“He said he wished I didn’t call him. When I was dying. Like he wishes I just. Let myself die. Which, I mean, yeah, I relate. But he…” 

“He said  _ what?  _ Those words?” 

“He said he wished I  _ didn’t call him _ , Ophelia. That’s not up for interpretation. He wishes I were dead.” 

“I don’t think that’s what he-” 

“Oh, yeah? Then what did he mean? I’m not a good friend, I’m not a good person… I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted me out of his life, so then why the fuck did he save me? I  _ wish  _ he just let me die, because then at least I wouldn’t have to live knowing that I made the most loyal, loving, forgiving, kind person I’ve ever known  _ hate me.”  _

“Shhh,” Ophelia says, and Hamlet realizes he’s yelling and crying and  _ when did that happen?  _ She takes his hand, and he clings to it, and next thing he knows she’s climbing onto the hospital bed next to him (he’s unhealthy and bony enough they can both fit) and wrapping her arms around him, guiding his head to her shoulder. “Just breathe.” 

He does, deep, shaking breaths. She strokes his back with a small hand, trailing along the ridges of his spine. 

“He doesn’t hate you,” Ophelia says softly, a second or minutes later. “He hates that he feels helpless. He’s angry because cares about you so much. He hates to see you hurt.” Her lips press against his forehead. “I understand the feeling.” 

He wishes this were the love he craves. 

He snuggles into her side, drying tears on his face, and only can fall asleep when he imagines she’s Horatio. 

* * *

 

 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooooooooo there's gonna be a part 2 where it's less DEPRESSING but we'll see how fast I can finish it
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway  
> Take care of yourself  
> Don't hurt yourself  
> Be kind to yourself and others  
> There is always another option  
> Watch Dan Howell's coming out video  
> IT GETS BETTER


End file.
